


Secrets Should Stay Buried

by orphan_account



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Kink Meme, Murder, Past Character Death, Promises, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years ago everything almost fell apart. It had been an accident, really. Well, it had started off as an accident. But it's fine, now. Everything's fine. Everybody's moved on, except poor dead Benjamin.</p><p>Or rather, it<i> was</i> fine, until the boy showed up. Now he's digging too deep into things that don't concern him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1, Present.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anybody was wondering, Bridgeford is a made-up city in the south of England and the university itself is basically a weird mishmash of Oxford, Cambridge and Durham and a couple of others. And when I say 'city', I mean a large town with a special charter, because that's how we roll in the UK. We don't like things that make sense.
> 
> For this: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=10456067#cmt10456067

  
Haytham Kenway is a man of habit. Each morning he rises at seven, then showers, shaves and dresses and drives his trusty little Nissan to his office at the University of Bridgeford's Department of History. He arrives at exactly five past eight, and at exactly quarter past, his research assistant arrives with their coffee, from the campus Starbucks.   
  
"Morning, Charles," Haytham always says, flicking through the newspaper Charles hands him. He waits for his computer to boot up, carefully sipping the triple-shot Americano while it's still extra hot. Charles dutifully tells him his schedule (seminars at nine and eleven, a lecture at one, planning meeting for the trip to Pompeii at three, two students for one-on-one tuition at four and five respectively), and gives him back his notes for his lessons for next week, which have now been photocopied just in case they are needed for future reference.   
  
Haytham tends to eat at the cafe near the library, mostly because staff have a fifty percent discount. He doesn't know or care where Charles goes at lunch, as long as he's doing his work by the time Haytham gets back to the office. Most evenings, he heads home at six, and often spends his free time reading, watching television, or being forcibly dragged to various social events by the few men he considers his friends.   
  
Although Haytham's small circle of friends all live nearby, they hardly meet as a group. William usually insists on interrupting his peaceful Friday lunch by taking him to one of William's many favourite indie cafes around the small city. Thomas drops by the office randomly, mostly to piss Charles off, while John usually communicates via texts due to his insane working hours at the local airbase which is quite possibly actually an MI5 facility.   
  
Haytham is well aware that his life might be considered 'boring' or 'dull', but he's had more than enough excitement to last him a lifetime. He's grown to appreciate predictability and organisation.   
  
All of the above is why he's apprehensive about answering the phone when it rings at nine PM on a Sunday in August. Nobody phones him this late at night. His friends all call his mobile, not the landline. He answers anyway, because he hasn't got anything better to do.  
  
"Doctor Kenway speaking," he says.   
  
"You're a doctor now?" Ziio asks, and Haytham's breath catches in his throat. He'd never expected to hear her voice again, not after everything that had happened between them. What on earth could she be calling about? Had her-- had their son died? Were they moving to Britain? Were they in trouble?  
  
"Indeed I am," he answers, smoothly. It sounds like she's in a place with bad reception, or there's something dodgy about her phone line. "You never call."  
  
"Connor's been accepted at your university. He's flying over the Wednesday before Fresher's week. He'll be staying with some friends of mine before moving into his halls of residence, so you don't need to worry about getting a guest room ready or anything. I just wanted to make sure you knew he's going to be around for the next couple of years. I sent you an email a few weeks ago, but I figured I'd call, since you never answered. "  
  
"Oh," Haytham says, dumbstruck. "Sorry. I didn't get it."  
  
Anybody else would probably have yelled at him for being uncaring, but thankfully Ziio knows he just doesn't know what to say or do.   
  
"I thought as much. I expect you to meet him at some point," Ziio says, sternly. "Be nice. Try to pronounce his name properly. Don't ask about the mohawk."  
  
"Mohawk?" Haytham starts, but is cut off by the phone going dead. He stares at the receiver a moment, then sighs and puts it back on its hook. There are few things Haytham hates more in the world than sudden changes to his comfortable life, but he's admittedly quite curious about the boy. They've never met, though he has seen a few pictures Ziio sent over of a rather adorable little boy.  
  
He can't help but feel apprehensive, though. Just what did Ziio say about him? If it's what he suspects, then Connor shouldn't want to be within a million miles of Haytham.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
"Is this Haytham Kenway's office?"   
  
Haytham glances up at the young American peering in through the half-open door. The boy looks nervous, and what little can be seen of his face underneath the hoodie is certainly Native American. He's a little disappointed the boy didn't come to see him sooner, but it's understandable. Fresher's week has only just finished. The lad's probably been busy trying to settle into a new lifestyle and culture.  
  
"That's what it says on the door," he says. "You must be Connor. Come in."  
  
Connor smiles, and enters. He's taller, broader than Haytham had anticipated. His clothes are simple, a shirt and jeans. Slovenly in Haytham's opinion, but practical in Ziio's. Haytham stands, and shakes his hand politely.  
  
"Hello," Connor says, obviously unsure as to what he should say or do.  
  
"I was expecting somebody shorter," Haytham says wryly, intending to break the ice. It doesn't work, and Connor looks like a deer caught in headlights.   
  
"I, uh…?"  
  
"It was a joke," Haytham digs into his pocket for his wallet, which contains one of the few pictures Ziio has sent him. It's of a twelve-year-old with braided hair and a toothy grin. "There."  
  
"Oh," Connor flushes, embarrassed. "Sorry."  
  
"Don't be. Tea?"   
  
"Uh…" Connor looks pained. "Do you have coffee?"  
  
"No," Haytham says. "But I suppose we could go to one of the cafes and catch up on twenty years of missed family life."  
  


* * *

  
  
Connor turns out to be a bright lad, though extremely shy. It takes until the second round of hot drinks before he gets comfortable speaking.   
  
"Mom didn't really tell me much about you. Just that you were English and you parted on bad terms."  
  
Haytham nods, not quite sure what to say to that. Both things are true.  
  
"Which college were you sorted into?" he asks, desperate to not have Connor ask why things with Ziio turned so sour in the end.  
  
"Church," Connor says. "It's the newest one, right? I thought about applying for one of the older ones, but I figured that the prestige wasn't worth a lack of central heating and one bathroom per five floors."  
  
Haytham winces. Ah, yes. He remembers all too vividly hung over mornings sprawled on freezing spiral staircases, trying not to vomit on three-century-old woodcarvings  
  
"Good choice," he says. "I presume your rooms are all right?"  
  
Connor nods.   
  
"Yeah. Everybody seems really nice, as well." There's not a whole lot to say to that, and it's only thirty seconds before Connor tries to break the ice. "Do you know why it's called Church? I mean, the other colleges all have some kind of, you know, motif. Connected to the name, I mean. But all I can find at ours are carved crosses. The square kind you see in hospitals."  
  
"Benjamin was a medical student," Haytham explains. "One of my dearest friends. He died when I was in my second year, and it was eventually decided, a little after I'd graduated, that the new college ought to be named after him."  
  
Connor is quiet.   
  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know. If you don't mind me asking, how did he die?"  
  
"Nobody really knows," Haytham says, and the lie tumbles from his lips easily. He's told it so many times, the lines between the lie and the truth are starting to blur. "It's thought that he was murdered, but nobody was ever apprehended."  
  
"That must have been difficult," Connor murmurs, staring into his coffee cup.  
  
"Yes, it was," Haytham replies. The sleepless nights, the endless arguing with his conspirators, the relationship breakdown with Ziio, his failing grades… It is not a time he wishes to remember.  
  
The silence stretches until Charles calls Haytham, demanding to know why he's not at the office, ready to see the man he's tutoring through his Master's degree. He makes his excuses, and leaves the boy where he is, frowning into his half-drunk cappucino.


	3. Chapter 3

  
"What do I do with him?" Haytham asks, mournfully. He stares sadly at his pint of bitter. He's at a loss already, and he's only known Connor for a week. The boy is nice enough, dropping round to the office every other day or so, putting his cell number into Haytham's mobile phone for him, but Haytham hasn't got a clue where to start with this 'building familial bonds' thing.  
  
"You could try talking to him," John suggests, possibly sarcastically. Haytham glares at him over the foam of his drink.   
  
"Thank you for your valuable insight," Haytham snaps. "I've tried that. I was thinking on a less generic scale."  
  
"Slowly try making him a part of your life," William says. "Introduce him to your friends and family. Have a dad's night in with movies and a takeaway and whatnot. Get to know the lad."  
  
"That doesn't sound like a terrible idea," Haytham muses aloud. "Have you still got that odd fetish for Native American culture?"  
  
"It's not a fetish, it's my job," William replies, slightly sourly. "I work at a bloody museum."  
  
"I could take him there," Haytham murmurs, drumming his fingers on the table. "He'd probably quite like you, actually. You're almost cool, for a man your age."  
  
"Thank you for that backhanded compliment," William says, but Haytham can tell he's not particularly upset. It takes a lot to rile William up. He's always been the most level-headed of them all, probably something to do with being the eldest. 

  
  
_"Why the **fuck**  did you kill him?" William screamed, clawing at Charles' face. "We're done for, you piece of  **shit**!"_

  
  
"Anytime, my friend," Haytham grins. "Oh! I could take him drinking. That's a traditional bonding thing, isn't it?"  
  
"I fink 'e'd rather be in the clubs with the pretty girls than downin' pints wiv you," Thomas says, sipping at his coke. "I know I would. Damn AA."  
  
"You mean there's no pretty girls at your Alcoholics Anonymous group?" Charles gasps, in mock horror. "You'd think there'd be quite a few, given that this is Essex."  
  
"Girls, yeah. Pretty, no." Thomas mutters, glaring at his drink as though it had wounded him.  
  
"Cheer up, Thomas. I'm sure you'll meet someone eventually," Haytham says, reassuringly.   
  
"You said that about Charlie twenty years ago and 'e's still a single Pringle-- ow!" Thomas rubs his arm, glaring at Charles. "You din't 'ave to elbow me so 'ard."  
  
"You didn't have to open your mouth," Charles gives Thomas a forced smile. "Haytham, might I suggest going on a day trip somewhere? London or one of the historic cities, perhaps? I'd suggest Salisbury, but it's rather far away."  
  
"Mm," Haytham makes a noncommittal noise. "That's near Stonehenge, isn't it? I suppose that's an option…"  
  
"He's studying veterinary medicine, isn't he?" William asks. "You could take him to an animal shelter, adopt a puppy for him!"  
  
"His dorm doesn't allow pets," Haytham says. "When he graduates, perhaps."  
  
"Look up 'is Facebook," Thomas suggests. "Find out what 'e does and don't like."  
  
"I don't think he has it," Haytham replies. "He can barely work Twitter. He's always texting, though. If I borrowed his phone…"  
  
"I like that idea," John says. "Pretend you have to text someone and you've run out of credit or lost your phone, and play up the 'help I'm from the past and can't work modern technology' aspect of your personality."  
  
"I don't have a 'help I'm from the past and can't work modern technology' aspect of my personality," Haytham says, stiffly.   
  
"Wot about that time--" Thomas begins.  
  
"Shut up, Thomas," Haytham snaps. "It's not my fault if the damned computer wouldn't work properly."  
  
"You probably should've plugged it in first," Charles murmurs. He swirls the wine around his glass.  
  
"I remember that," William says, smiling. "That was a wonderful day."  
  
"That was a terrible day!" Haytham exclaims.  
  
"For you," John says. "For us, it's comedy gold."  
  
"You're planning on telling Connor about it, aren't you? Don't you dare!" Haytham points an accusing finger at his friend.

  
  
_"You're planning on going to the police about it, aren't you? Don't you dare!" Haytham pointed an accusing finger at his friend._

  
  
"All right," William says, soothingly. "We won't tell him. Not unless Thomas gets him drunk enough to forget the whole evening."  
  
"That's nearly good enough," Haytham replies, sipping his bitter. "Promise me you won't get him high on any of your drugs, either."  
  
"I promise," William says, holding his hands up as though offended by the very idea he might share his 'herbal remedies' with Connor. "And incidentally, I'm offended that you think I'd give the lad anything like that."  
  
"Geoffrey Robinson," Haytham hisses, and it always surprises him how that one word does so much to their little group. Charles drops his glass, spilling the few drops of red wine left down his dress shirt. Thomas' hands start shaking. John's mouth presses into a thin, white line and William looks at him in the same way he did when Haytham and Ben dug the grave.  
  
It takes a moment for William's words to come, but when they do they are shaky with anger and fear and sorrow.  
  
"We agreed, Haytham. We all agreed we wouldn't--" William begins, and his eyes look a little damp and his face is a little flushed. "How dare you?"  
  
"I have a chance to make things right," Haytham replies, in his most urgent, pleading tone. "I  _need_  to make things right. Please don't do anything that might--"  
  
"We won't," Charles interrupts, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. "You need to relax, Haytham. It's been twenty years."  
  
"You're right," Haytham says, after a moment. "That was uncalled for. I'm sorry."  
  
The rest of the evening is awkward, and Haytham is relieved to leave the company of his friends.


End file.
